


Play it, Sam

by nonsolumsedetiam



Series: Here's Looking At You [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: This Sam also hates Tuesdays, Usual Suspects AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsolumsedetiam/pseuds/nonsolumsedetiam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Terrible Tuesdays, also known as Why Dean Hates Gabriel, also known as that one time Sam Wesson and Dean Smith went up against a former Archangel and it didn't end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play it, Sam

Sam sat in the motel room, head in his hands. At the first flash of light, he snatched up his phone and answered, already knowing exactly who it was.

"Give him back, you son of a bitch."

A light huff of laughter made its way to his ear.

"Someone's in a bad mood. Check your e-mail, Wesson. I cooked up something extra special for you. Do it or I carve Dean here a new brand. Nice tat, by the way Dean-o. Do you have a matching one Sammy? Are you two a set?"

Sam ignored the voice, angrily opening his e-mail. There, just like yesterday, was a new message waiting in his inbox.

It was a link to a live feed.

"Do you see what I see?"

There was a hooded figure tied to a chair. There was the barest hint of breathing, a soft rise and fall in the shoulders. From behind the camera, a familiar figure stepped into the frame. Sam seethed at the slicked back hair, snarling when man pistol whipped the hooded man. The man glanced back at the camera, knowing exactly what he was doing to Sam. He turned around fully, opening his arms, a silent dare,

"Watch closely, Sammy."

Slowly, he cocked the pistol, and aimed at the hooded man.

"No-!"

_Bang._ The hooded figure slumped in the chair. Ignoring the obscenities Sam screamed into the phone, the shooter walked over the figure and whipped off the hood. It was a dummy. It wasn't Dean. It wasn't Dean. The shooter walked back to the camera, kneeling down so his golden-eyed face filled the frame of the live feed.

"Happy Tuesday, Sam."

* * *

Sam was cursing the day they accepted the job. It was a job from one of the Garrison higher ups, Raphael. One of their "Archangels" was missing, and the boys had taken on the task of trying to find him and bring him back. Finding him was simple. But Gabriel was a slippery fish, and unfortunately for the boys, he knew exactly what he was doing. The trap that was meant for the hunted snapped on the hunters on a Tuesday. And this was the fifteenth "Tuesday" gift Gabriel sent Sam; Dean was at the mercy of one of the Garrison's deadliest soldiers for fifteen days, and there was nothing Sam could do about it. Each day was a day where Sam got to see Dean die. Over and over and over again. And each time, Gabriel ended their session with the same words.

"Happy Tuesday."

* * *

Day twenty, the phone rang once more.

"You chuckleheads seriously thought you could catch me? Please. Get real."

"Gabriel, please."

"A lesson to the wise, Sam; you don't mess with Angels, especially former Archangels."

Over the phone, Sam heard could hear the sound of choking.

"What are you doing?"

"You a favor, kiddo. I gave dearest Dean a potion. And right now, through all his veins runs a cold and drowsy humor. I'm giving Smith back to you, kiddo. Though I can't speak for his condition when you find him."

With shaking hands, Sam wrote down the directions Gabriel rattled off to him. He scrambled out of the motel room and into the Impala, not even bothering to lock the door. He tore out of the parking lot, speeding through lights recklessly. The instructions led him to an abandoned theater. Sam took the safety off of his gun before breaking in. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere in the lobby, on the ground were a set of foot prints leading further inside. Cautiously, Sam followed the prints into the theater itself. On the stage was a long table, and stretched out on the table was-

"Dean!"

Sam ran and leapt up onto the stage. Dean's eyes were closed, and he was deathly pale and cold to the touch. He wasn't breathing.

"No. …No."

There was no pulse.

"No, Dean. No."

Sam the cradled the older man in his arms, rocking him in his arm. The entire time, throughout the twenty days of Gabriel's torture, Sam had not shed one tear. Now, with a still and unresponsive Dean in his arms, the tears wouldn't stop coming. What was he supposed to do? He didn't know what to do.

A soft groan.

"Sam?"

"Dean!" He hugged the other man tight, glad to hear that familiar voice.

"I can't breathe, you bitch. And it's freezing in here!"

"Shut up, jerk."

Dean was alive. Dean was alive. Dean was alive. And Raphael and Gabriel and the entire Garrison could go screw themselves.

Dean was alive.


End file.
